007: revolution
by threnoidia
Summary: One year after 'The Fall', the new M has superiors to impress and the world to save. James Bond is slowly realizing that a lifetime of avoiding imminent death is catching him up, but he undertakes a new mission to stop a powerful weapon falling into the hands of Death. As Bond races time and bullets, the last thing he is expecting to find is a younger version of himself. [on hold]
1. Prologue

**This is my own version of a 007 adventure, set after the events of ****_Skyfall_****. Daniel Craig is the Bond unless otherwise stated. I obviously do not own any of the James Bond material mentioned hereonin. Constructive reviews are greatly appreciated!**

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue.<strong>

_"An unarmed man can only_

_flee from evil, and evil is not_

_overcome by fleeing from it."_

_- Lt. Col. Jeff Cooper_

**15th December, 2013**

**Paris, France**

A portly shape scurried from one pool of golden light to another, peering around into the darkness that gnawed intently at its refuge. The sound of rattling garbage cans made the figure spin around and clutch something to its chest. A sigh escaped chapped lips as the source of the noise was identified: nothing more than stray felines fighting over a scrap of meat. Other than the cats, there seemed to be no souls between one end of the street and the other. It was midnight in Paris and most everyone in this part of the city was taking their rest.

Still, not everyone was sleeping. The man's nose began to twitch. His eyes flicked from side to side, desperately searching for the danger he sensed. Paranoia was one of his closest friends, but tonight was not the night to merely brush off suspicion. Tonight he was Atlas, holding up the world. If he failed… His eyes began to ache from the strain of the dark and every blink felt like a death sentence. The package was slipped into an inner coat pocket as he prepared to make another dash.

One step forward took him to the edge of the light. A bullet pinged off the sidewalk where he had just been standing. Terrified, he plunged into the darkness and found himself stumbling into an alley. Deciding it was at least better cover, he careered forward. His agonised panting echoed off the damp walls and filled the night around him. Cursing the ache deep in his left leg, he skidded on the wet stone and almost lost his footing.

A hiccup of panic escaped him. Light was pouring in through the end of the alleyway. Car headlights. He threw up an arm to block out the blinding white illumination, his eyes struggling to make sense of anything after so much dark. His mind clicked into gear and he twisted around, one hand grasping at the package hidden in his coat.

The muzzle of a gun glinted in the harsh light. He pulled up short, his eyes widening.

A silky American voice emanated from the shadows. 'Master Harris, if you would like to leave this city alive, I suggest you hand it over before my trigger finger gets itchy.'

If Harris had been scared before, now he was terrified. 'Hades…' he breathed.

'You know,' the voice began conversationally, 'I had thought you would know better after the last time we met. You made me a promise, Master Harris –' The nonchalant tone turned dangerous – 'And I do not take kindly to promise breakers.'

'I – I don't have it.' Harris straightened up, gritting his teeth together in a desperate attempt to stop them rattling. 'It's already out of your reach.'

The gun floated closer until its cold metal was resting against Harris' forehead. It seemed that a ghost was in control, but Harris knew better. Hades drank the light and cloaked himself in darkness.

'You're lying.'

Harris swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It felt as though the cold gun muzzle was eating into his flesh. 'I have a family, children. If I had it I would give it to you.'

'I regret to inform you that those facts are now obsolete.'

A chill even colder than the metal at his temple washed through his veins. For a moment Harris' heart stopped beating. 'Wh – What do you mean?'

The gun twitched as though it were impatient. 'I mean that you will only be seeing your family anytime soon if I blow your brains out.'

The world stopped spinning. Time creaked to a halt. Harris wasn't breathing. And then anger and sorrow flooded him and everything moved faster than it ever had. A roar tore from his lungs as he leaped forward. The gun clattered away. The slim man whose hand had held it, fell heavily backward. Harris was upon him in an instant, dodging a wild punch and tangling his fingers around Hades' throat.

'You bastard!' he screamed, drowning out the terrible noises of the man he was choking the life from. 'You fucking bastard!'

Two men hefted Harris away from their leader, struggling to hold their heavy, hysterical burden. A third man stepped smoothly from the black car and strode forward. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he raised his gun and aimed its muzzle toward the back of Harris' head.

A shot rang out.

An agonised scream rent the chill night air. The would-be shooter dropped to his knees, letting the gun fall. He clutched at his hand, blood pouring like a crimson stream down his arm.

'Oh, sorry, did you need those fingers?' A smooth British accent emanated from the shadows, just shy of the revealing course of artificial light. When he stepped away from the alley wall, he took the form of a well-dressed, blonde thirty-something, with a Ruger CC 9mm pistol in-hand. A quick movement with the butt of the gun saw the wounded man collapse unconscious. Silence fell, aside from quiet sobs from Harris and the heavy breathing of the two thugs now taking stock of this new arrival.

Hades had risen to his feet. A crisp black suit shirt and stark red tie could be made out, but the man's face remained hidden. 'States. Missen. _Kill_.'

Immediately, one of the thugs grasped the glock in his belt. Missen was still taking aim when the bullet hit him in the chest. His overly-large form gradually toppled forward like a giant felled tree. A heavy thud and a scatter of gravel heralded the victory of gravity. Missen didn't move again.

The suited man slowly lowered his Ruger and matched gazes with the remaining henchman. 'Still going to try your luck?'

States stepped forward, a sneer on his tanned face. The light shone on his bald head and accentuated a deep silver scar along his left cheek. An experimental flex caused his thick muscles to convulse beneath his blue button-up shirt. A wall of leering meat, States charged at his foe with all the force of a speeding freight train.

The Brit raised his gun, but States' fleetness belied his girth. The two men crashed to the ground, toppling a garbage can that clattered away down the alley. States was the first to regain his feet. A meaty fist soared toward the Brit's head. Still prone, the blonde rolled clear of the blow and swiftly hauled himself upright. States roared as his fist connected with cobblestone. Taking the opening as a chance, the Brit grabbed him around the neck from behind.

States stumbled backward, the sudden weight of his attacker unexpected. Grabbing at the Brit's arms, the henchman desperately tried to break free of the grip that was cutting off his air supply. The Brit held on grimly, his eyes searching the dim alley for his gun. He was so intent on locating his weapon that he failed to take note of States' course. The thug slammed into the alley wall, using his considerable bulk to shove his foe against the hard surface.

The Brit grunted as the back of his head met the bricks. Involuntarily, his arms slipped from around States' neck. The thug pulled away with renewed vigour. The Brit sunk to the cobblestone, a crimson smear vivid against the damp grey wall. Blinking hard, the blonde tried to rise. He slumped back, hoping the world would stop spinning.

States grinned broadly, showing three missing teeth from some past fight. There was a sickening crunch as he cracked his knuckles and loped forward. 'I'm gonna have fun with this,' he gloated, eyes glittering as he advanced.

His fist connected with the Brit's face. The blonde's head jerked to one side. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheekbone. States raised a hand again and bought it down on his victim's collarbone. Then he was striking again and again. Nose, shoulder, chest. The sound of the Brit's ribcage breaking echoed like a nauseating whip crack, closely followed by a hoarse scream of agony.

States laughed savagely. He grabbed a chunk of his victim's dark blonde hair and pulled the Brit upright. Bleeding now from a broken nose, cut cheek and split lip, the man who had originally arrived to save Jeremy Harris' life now faced his own death. A brutal end at the hands of a thug.

The Brit doubled over as States' knuckles pounded into his stomach. In between the sounds of retching, States realised his prey was gasping something. 'What are yew on about?' he asked, genuinely confused. The Brit tried to speak louder but failed. Frowning, the henchman bent his head down to hear better.

The Brit moved like a caged viper. He smashed the back of his head against State's nose as the man's face came closer, shocking his foe into releasing him. With effort, he used his good shoulder to toss the large man a few steps backward. The Brit's knees gave way. He fell to the ground, leant his back against the wall and fired the gun that suddenly appeared in his hand.

States went down like David's Goliath.

'I said,' the Brit told the unmoving body, 'Ah, that's where my gun was.'

From where the fight had only lasted a few minutes, Harris stared with disbelief at the last man standing. 'Who are you?' he blurted out, one hand on the package inside his coat.

The well-dressed, blonde thirty-something with a Ruger CC 9mm pistol in-hand, released a weary sigh.

'Bond. James Bond.'


	2. Chapter One

**Thanks to Ora, here is a new chapter!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One.<strong>

_"A little revolution_

_Now and then is never_

_A bad thing."_

_- Thomas Jefferson_

**2nd January, 2014**

**Outer Mongolia**

Speeding along the dusty road with a hundred and fifty horsepower thundering through the bike beneath his lithe form, Jim Bannock heard nothing but the music blasting in his ears. AC/DC bellowed about freedom as he fluidly rounded a corner, his grey-denim-clad knee almost to the ground. Strands of blonde flicked about in the headwind, loosed from the tie that bound his shoulder-length hair in a ponytail.

A glance at the sun through his wraparound Oakley's made him gun the motorbike. Intense blue eyes noted the position of a half-collapsed concrete bunker. Long-since abandoned by the Russian army, it hadn't escaped Jim's lazy notice that many of these dilapidated shelters faced south. The wariness of its Chinese neighbours had never done Mongolia any good but Jim appreciated the need to be ready, to have a good stance before the enemy even made their move.

Beyond the road and bunkers, the landscape of dramatic rolling hills and vast plains stretched out toward the horizon. Distant white dots Jim recognised as sheep grazed here and there in loose flocks. Startled by the roar of his bike, a herd of wild horses separated from the camouflage of grey and brown undergrowth and galloped away.

Experience told him that animals meant people; his keen eyes soon picked out the collection of _gers_ squatting in the shadow of a tall hill. Swerving off the road, Jim made for the camp. The last known nomadic people of the world lived in circular velvet-lined tents of white that stood out stark against the Mongolian backdrop. It seemed a reasonably small settlement by Jim's count, perhaps only raised for the purpose of his visit.

Alerted by the sound of his approach, three Mongolian men astride buckskin horses rode out from the _gers_. The motor purred quietly as Jim let his bike roll to a stop. As he waited for them, he unwrapped a piece of gum. Mint flavouring struck his tongue as he chewed thoughtfully, never lifting his gaze from the guns the Mongolians wore at their hips. As the trio came within earshot, Jim flicked his earphones free and clicked off his iPod. AC/DC fell silent. Wind whipped across the plain with an eerie whisper.

'The messenger?' the leader cried in accented English.

Jim inclined his head in acknowledgement. He removed his sunglasses and wiped a drop of sweat from his eye with the back of his hand.

'The Americans wait.' With this short statement, the riders turned their mounts around.

Jim coaxed his bike back to life and followed at a slower pace. He glanced at the tanned leather satchel tied to the seat behind him. If he didn't get the right price for this there would be harsh repercussion from his current employers. He didn't like them much – or at all if he was being honest – but money was money no matter where it came from.

When he found himself amongst the tents, he was quick to note there were no families here. Children didn't run giggling from behind their mothers' colourful skirts to wave at him or marvel at his motorbike. There were no elders eyeing him warily, wondering if the stranger was a threat to their kin.

Everyone he saw was a man armed and uniformed. Tradition seemed only to show itself through the tents and various horses neighing somewhere out of sight. Jim felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle. He had been in Mongolia for two years, playing courier to different people of power – and being paid handsomely for his journeying and subsequent safe delivery – but never before had he witnessed such a gathering of men so well-equipped to end his life.

At the centre of the encampment, with the ease of practise, Jim swung a leg over the bike and extricated himself from his favourite mode of transport. It almost felt strange to be standing on grassy soil again after so many hours of travel. He flicked his bike off and slipped the keys into a pocket. As he shrugged out of his black leather jacket, a subtle glance showed him that several men now stood at random intervals amongst the tents. All of them had AK-47s in their hands.

Jim involuntarily swallowed. A cold sweat that wasn't from the sunlight burning down on him broke out along his spine. He shifted his tight grey shirt self-consciously, better hiding the pistol he had jammed in the back of his jeans. Silently, he reminded himself that he had his employer's protection.

The nomad who had spoken to him first called to him from beside the entrance to the largest _ger_ Jim had seen here so far. Swiftly, Jim untied the straps holding the satchel to his bike and slung the bag over an opposite shoulder. The thick band of leather pulled tight across his chest, reminding him just how precious his cargo was. He settled a hand on the top of the satchel as he ducked inside the tent.

Although plain on the outside and identical to every other ger (except in size), the inside of the circular shelter was exquisite. Thick animal furs carpeted the floor, dotted here and there with round mahogany tables and electrical candelabras. It immediately occurred to Jim that this wasn't Mongolian design. And then he spied the foreigner lounging amongst a small mountain of mauve and gold cushions.

'Our messenger, I take it?' Her voice was sweeter than honey, her gaze darker than emerald. She watched him from over the rim of her glass as she sipped at vivid purple wine. A perfect brown eyebrow rose suggestively. 'You're quite pretty.'

'Hush, Jocelyn.' The chastisement emanated from the doorway of the tent as a new stranger entered the _ger_.

Jim moved aside, letting the man pass. He was at least a whole two heads taller than Jim himself, with remarkably pale skin and a bald head. A crisp black suit stressed broad shoulders and muscular arms. When he turned around, Jim swallowed a gasp of shock. The entire left side of the man's face was puckered and silvered with burn scars; there was a hole where his eye should have been.

'Christopher Lockwood,' the man offered, a wry smile twisting his features even more horribly.

Jim blinked, realising he had been staring. 'Uh,' he stammered, abruptly staring at his boots. 'Jim Bannock, courier for Tuqanum Industries.'

'Indeed.' For someone who made such a fearsome sight, Lockwood had the tone of a well-educated American. 'Masters Lynford and Fisher will be with us shortly. And –' here he glanced sternly at the woman – 'you've already met Lady Jocelyn Roxanne of the House of Mountbatten.'

'Mountbatten,' Jim repeated under his breath. He looked toward the Lady Jocelyn with widened eyes. She was a relation of the House of Windsor – the ruling family of England./p

Jocelyn lowered her wineglass and smirked with full crimson lips. 'Oh, it's only a title, darling,' she drawled, 'Nothing to get upset about. I doubt the royal grandmummy even remembers I exist.'

Lockwood sighed audibly, reaching for a nearby pitcher. He poured wine into two glasses with a deftness that defied the size of his hands. More suited to whiskey and rum, Jim slightly shook his head when Lockwood lifted a glass in offering.

'Suit yourself,' the large man replied with a shrug. He seated himself in a gold brocade armchair, crossing one leg over the other and taking a mouthful of wine.

Jim shifted awkwardly. In his jeans, plain shirt and combat boots, with an obvious helping of Mongolian dust over all of it, he felt remarkably out of place. He was just reaching up to tuck loose strands of hair behind one ear when a new man swept into the ger. A second followed moments later.

Jim's gaze skipped briefly over the first stranger, merely noting his short stature and rather greasy dark hair. The second man caught his full attention. About the same height and build as himself, this newcomer had a certain air about him that commanded respect. Dirty-blonde hair was turned grey at the temples but his blue eyes were still bright and intelligent. His suit was a better fit than Lockwood's and seemed somehow to _belong._

'Robert,' Jocelyn purred, gracefully uncurling from her cushion throne and rising to her feet. Her chiffon dress swirled lovingly about her slender form, the crimson flattering her porcelain skin. She slipped a hand into the short man's proffered one, dipping a polite curtsy as he planted a soft kiss on her wrist.

Lockwood too rose from his state of relaxation and moved forward to shake hands with the taller visitor. 'Fisher,' he acknowledged.

Jim's eyes narrowed. There was an unmistakable sourness in the bald man's voice that Fisher almost seemed to expect.

'Hello, Lockwood.' Fisher grasped his greeter's hand with all the strength of a steel vice, his British accent easily recognizable. 'Nice to see you back after your unfortunate holiday.'

Lockwood winced visibly and withdrew. 'Sure,' he responded, quickly switching his focus to the man Jim assumed was Lynford. The two seemed much warmer, sharing a chuckle over some quiet words.

Jim was unaware of Jocelyn's presence until he felt her hand slide into the small of his back. 'Robert,' she called to the short American, 'Mr. Fisher – this is our courier from Tuqanum Industries. He's here to make the transaction.'

'Pleasure,' Robert Lynford smiled, revealing a mouthful of too-white teeth and a single gold-capping that glinted in the artificial light. 'Why don't we get to business right away?'

Still standing beside Jim, Jocelyn slid her hand beneath the satchel's strap. As she moved in front of him, she ran her fingers over his chest. Her emerald eyes glittered, eyebrows raised playfully. Jim felt goosebumps rise over his skin even though she had only touched his shirt. He wasn't aware he had been holding his breath until she had slipped the satchel's strap over his head and was floating away.

The satchel reached Lynford's grasp. Excitedly, the little man flipped open the leather bag and reached inside. He drew out a box wrapped carefully in lavender tissue paper. Tearing this asunder and letting it drift to the floor, Lynford revealed a glossy mahogany case. He set it down on the wine table and clicked the golden clasps.

'Gentlemen and my Lady,' he announced theatrically, 'I present to you the largest fire opal ever discovered in the world. Feast your eyes –' he began to open the lid – 'upon the Eye of Ra!'

Hardly able to comprehend he had not been sent out of the tent, Jim leaned slowly forward. Gleaming from its bed of red satin lay the largest precious stone to have ever come out of Egypt. Of all its myriad dazzling colours, the most intense was an orange red that danced as though flames were rippling across its smooth surface.

An eternity seemed to pass before Lockwood's cultured voice broke the silence. 'May I?' At Lynford's nod, he replaced the short man in front of the case. Lifting a Jeweler's Loupe to his one remaining eye, Lockwood peered at the stone. After a moment he straightened up and lowered the eyepiece. 'It's real,' he affirmed, unable to hide his awe. 'This is most certainly the Eye of Ra.'

Lynford gestured to Fisher. 'The two million, please.'

'Two million?' It was out of Jim's mouth before he realised. And once it had been said there was no taking it back. 'My employer agreed on twice that amount.'

'Yes, well. Sometimes these things must be altered.' Lynford turned back to the precious gem, waving his hand indifferently.

'Tuqanum Industries owns more businesses than you can name,' Jim said slowly, taking a step forward. 'And my employers expect four million.'

The last time he had failed to return with an agreed price had seen Jim Bannock slumped in a New York gutter with two sprained shoulders, a concussion and several broken ribs. The people gathered in this tent were undoubtedly dangerous … but they seemed small fry compared to the promise of Tuqanum Industries' dissatisfaction.

Lynford's gaze was cold as he faced Jim. 'The agreed upon price was too much. Once my project is completed and my own funds secure, I shall discuss with your employers some kind of recompense. I am sure they will understand.'

'I'm sure they _won't_,' Jim fired back. 'I won't take any less than four million.'

The metallic click of a loaded pistol brought his attention to Lockwood's weapon suddenly pointed at his head. Jim clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval.

'If you kill me, they'll come after you.' He matched gazes with Lockwood, then Lynford, and then Jocelyn. 'And what they leave behind won't be pretty.'

Icy blue eyes caught his and held his stare. Something unreadable flickered across Fisher's face. Jim snatched his gaze away and focused on Lynford, feeling slightly unnerved.

'See here, boy,' the short man hissed, striding closer until he was only a few steps away, 'You are in over your head. To Tuqanum Industries you are a cockroach in the paws of a lion. Your purpose is to run between the claws and return with morsels, but should you venture too far, should something unpleasant befall you, the lion barely notices. He shall merely send out another roach to collect the lost morsel and, when it reappears, be happy with a full stomach.

'The lion might amuse itself with you from time to time should you return without a prize, but in the big picture you are nothing but a tiny scrap of collateral. Especially on a job like this – the big league has no room for mistakes, no room for loose ends. If you die, they still get their money. They win _especially without_ you, boy.'

As both the words and the enormity of the situation sank in, Jim felt the blood drain from his face. Lynford was right. By taking this contract he had created for himself a rock and a hard place – both the pan _and_ the fire. Tuqanum Industries would simply send armed goons to track down Robert Lynford and whoever worked for him if Jim never came back. They would find his body somewhere in the desert and know all their secrets were safe. They probably wouldn't even bury him.

Panicking, Jim reached for the gun in the back of his jeans. His hand grasped empty air and cotton. He looked up to see Jocelyn twirling his pistol on one finger, a smile playing across her mouth.

'Sorry, sweetheart,' she teased.

_Fuck._

Instinct took over.

In one fluid movement he snatched the weapon from Lockwood's grasp and jammed his boot into the man's groin. With a bark of pain, the American dropped to his knees, hands over his crotch. Jim threw himself into a forward roll as Jocelyn took aim with his own pistol. Lynford dived for cover as Jocelyn's bullet wedged itself in the lattice support of the tent.

Jim rolled to his feet and loosed a shot at the British woman. She ducked away and shoved over the nearest table, sending candelabra and ancient books onto the carpets. Lockwood was back on his feet. He lunged at Jim and knocked the gun from his grasp, toppling them both to the floor.

Jim scrambled for the weapon on hands and knees. Lockwood grabbed his ankle and dragged him backward. Jim kicked out, landing a blow on his attacker's jaw. Lockwood grunted but held on. Using his heavier weight to his advantage, the American managed to shove the younger man over onto his back.

Jim struggled as Lockwood straddled his legs. He reached desperately for the gun he knew lay somewhere above his head. The American unsheathed a wickedly long dagger from somewhere inside his suit and regarded Jim with mock sorrow.

'I was just getting to like you, kid.' Lockwood pressed the dagger tip against Jim's throat. At the same time, Jim's fingers scraped the edge of the gun. It wasn't his shot that went off.

Lockwood tumbled sideways, slumping to the floor with a bullet hole in his forehead. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Jim didn't stop to ask questions. He scrambled to his feet and came face to face with Lynford. The short man landed a powerful punch to the side of his head that set his ears ringing. Stumbling, Jim swung a fist wildly. It connected with Lynford's shoulder. The American retaliated with a succession of fast hand jabs that left Jim reeling backward.

Jim blinked, trying to clear his head. He ducked Lynford's next swing and caught the shorter man a strong blow on his nose. Somehow Lockwood's dagger ended up in his hand and, as Lynford lurched to the floor, Jim raised the weapon.

Electricity coursed through his body and he was distantly aware of his arms and legs jerking wildly. He felt the sharp, metallic knock to the side of his head –

– and then everything went dark.


End file.
